Chapter 82: Agreeing

The clatter of steel against timber rippled across both corvettes like a death knell.

Imperial soldiers threw down their sidearms, unbuckled heavy crossbelts, and dragged ornate fire-enchanted spears toward the forward hatch. None of them spoke. The wind mages sat in subdued clusters, their eyes glassy and vacant as they deliberately severed their focus, letting the faint, shimmering glow of their inner mana reserves fade away entirely.

Captain Daniel stood near the forward mast with his head bowed, his knuckles raw and white against his belt. His broadsword—the weapon bestowed upon him by an imperial legate during his appointment—sat atop a wooden crate near the ladder, cold and stripped of purpose.

Down in the water, three rigid-hull inflatable boats cut their throttles, idling twenty yards out. The Navy lieutenant who had brought Ayanokoji and Miyuki over was already on his feet, holding a megaphone while his men kept their carbines leveled.

"Vessel command!" the lieutenant’s voice crackled across the calm water. "Your five minutes are up. State your intentions immediately."

Daniel looked as though he had aged ten years in the span of an hour. He glanced toward Ayanokoji, his mouth opening, but no sound came out. The pride that usually choked every word out of an imperial officer had completely evaporated, replaced by an empty, numb shock.

"He can’t speak English," Ayanokoji remarked calmly, turning to the captain. "You’ve given the order to disarm, correct?"

"Yes," Daniel rasped, his voice barely rising above the gentle slap of waves against the hull. "Every blade. Every wand. The armory is unlatched. If they intend to execute us, let them do it quickly. I will not give them the pleasure of begging."

"They won’t execute you," Ayanokoji replied without missing a beat. "Killing compliant detainees yields zero operational value, especially when they need you alive to confirm intelligence."

He stepped up to the splintered gunwale, resting one hand on the cracked wood, and looked down at the waiting Navy craft.

"We accept your terms," Ayanokoji projected in his clean, flat English, his accent steady. "All weapons have been placed in the forward hold. All mages have stood down their mana. Captain Daniel has ordered full compliance."

The Navy lieutenant lowered his megaphone, lifted his radio to his chest rig, and spoke a quick sequence of acronyms into the receiver. Within seconds, a curt affirmative crackled back through his earpiece.

"Understood," the lieutenant called back. "Keep all personnel on the open weather deck with their hands visible. No one goes below deck without an escort. Boarding teams are coming up."

The three inflatable craft surged forward together, bumping against the listing hull with dull rubber thuds. Boarding lines were tossed over the sides, secured with swift, practiced efficiency.

Within moments, over a dozen heavily armed sailors and Marines scaled the rope netting and hauled themselves onto the deck. They moved in pairs, carbines raised in sweeping arcs, clearing the forecastle, the ruined wheelhouse, and the hatchways with practiced speed. There was no hesitation, no theatrical grandstanding, and no shouting—just crisp, muted commands and the steady crunch of tactical boots on splintered oak.

Two naval corpsmen, recognizable by the medical crosses patch on their tactical vests and the heavy trauma bags slung across their shoulders, immediately broke off toward the wounded Solarian sailors slumped against the bulkheads.

"Don’t move, just relax," one of the corpsmen said in English, kneeling beside a young imperial deckhand whose arm was scorched by monster acid.

The imperial boy flinched, shrinking back into the wood in terror, muttering a frantic prayer under his breath.

"He’s terrified," Miyuki murmured, taking an instinctive step forward. "Wait—let me help."

The corpsman glanced up, startled to hear a young girl speaking English, but he firmly shook his head. "Ma’am, please step back. Standard protocol. We’ve got this under control."

"I’m a Saint-class healer," Miyuki insisted, keeping her hands open and visible to avoid alarming the armed guards nearby. "I was summoned to this world with restorative magic. Even though my mana is low right now, I can stabilize severe tissue damage instantly, and more importantly, they trust me. If you approach him with unfamiliar instruments, he might panic and go into shock. Please, let me assist you."

The corpsman paused, his eyes flicking between her earnest expression and the trembling sailor. He glanced over his shoulder at Lieutenant Miller, who gave a quick, pragmatic nod.

"Alright," the corpsman said, unzipping a sterile pack. "No sudden movements, and keep any high-energy spells within standard limits. Talk him down while I decontaminate the burn area."

Miyuki immediately knelt beside the young deckhand, speaking in a calm, soothing Solarian dialect. "It’s alright, Paul. Breathe slowly. Don’t fight them. They are here to treat your injuries, not harm you."

She placed a gentle, steady palm over the uninjured portion of the boy’s arm, channeling a soft, warm trickle of her remaining healing mana to dull the pain. The agonizing redness around the acid burns began to recede, and the boy’s shallow wheezing eased.

"Lady... Lady Miyuki..." Paul choked out, tears cutting tracks through the grime on his face as the trembling in his limbs subsided.

"Just stay still," Miyuki whispered softly. "You’re going to be fine."

The corpsman worked alongside her, applying antiseptic wash and modern burn dressings with practiced speed, visibly impressed by how her faint restorative aura accelerated tissue recovery.

Once the wounded were stabilized, Lieutenant Miller directed the primary party to the waiting transport craft. Captain Daniel was escorted down the netting under close guard, his hands kept carefully away from his sides. His jaw remained clenched tight, his eyes darting between the armed Marines and the towering gray hull looming across the water.

Ayanokoji and Miyuki followed closely behind. Within minutes, the inflatable boat brought them alongside the colossal elevator platform of the USS Gerald R. Ford, lifting them into the cavernous, humming belly of the carrier.

Escorted through a maze of narrow, steel-walled passageways, Daniel stumbled slightly, overwhelmed by the hum of the ship’s engines and the cold glare of fluorescent lights.

They were brought directly into the flag conference room.

The heavy hatch hissed open, revealing Rear Admiral Donovan standing at the head of the long table, arms folded over his chest. Captain Hayes stood beside him, watching the prisoners enter.

Daniel froze in the doorway, staring at the two silver stars pinned to Donovan’s collar. The immense aura of unyielding authority radiating from the commander was unmistakable, even without magical pressure.

"Welcome aboard," Donovan said in plain English, his voice deep and measured. "I suggest you take a seat."